Touch
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: You want what you can't have. [Alleria, in Stormwind][BfA era, post-Burning]


**Notes1:** Just an idea that came to me last night, as I was working on another Alleria-centric one-shot called _the house that lies in-between_, based on the implications that Alleria and Turalyon's relationship is strained due to the former utilizing Void magic. Especially since neither can touch each other because of the extreme polarities they find themselves standing at in the cosmological scale. Although, IIRC, I do recall seeing them touch once or twice in the _Three Sisters_ comic without any repercussions, which I found odd given what we know about Light/Void interactions. I do believe this might be just an oversight, though.

I hesitated to list a pairing on here simply because...well, given the context, there's really nothing romantic about watching your SO gearing up for war and having eldritch powers whispering in your ear that he's going to cuck you with someone more exotic and doesn't dabble with dark magic. But for all its talk of love, the Void (canonically) cannot comprehend it; I think it would only have some vague idea of it if Turalyon forsook the Light and turned to the Shadow, but even that would be more about a 'love' for destruction of everything on an atomic scale.

(Although I _did_ want to include some hint of Alleria/Illidan, only because I liked how she didn't fly into a rage like Turalyon did when Xe'ra was killed. Also because post-Antorus!Illidan has finally stopped going after Tyrande. And _also_ because I think an interaction between Alleria and Illidan, two people that share parallels, was a massively missed opportunity (which, among other things like an encounter between Illidan, Malfurion, and Tyrande, is the only thing I care about; I don't care too much, if at all, about the major night elf players except Kor'vas and Fandral Staghelm). But I felt it out of place in a story that's about a touch-starved Alleria, so that was omitted for something that gets played with in _the house that lies in-between_.)

* * *

_Why do you keep doing this to yourself? _ The Void asks again. Almost sounds like it's pleading , or attempting to pass off its tone as pleading . Annoyance, she thinks, would be a much better term.

Alleria ignores it, though, keeps her eyes trained on the harbor below. Marines are filing onto the teleporter pads leading to the gunship hovering over Stormwind City, outfitted in armor and weapon forged from the Jasperlode and Fargodeep Mines and a taste for blood salivating on their tongues. People run back and forth across the cobblestones hauling crates full of the essential amenities: food, water, clothing, repair kits, tracking equipment, potions and elixirs and flasks, poisons, bombs. Azerite.

The air is redolent with sulfur and sea salt borne on the wind that tosses the lion-faced flag above her into a frenzy. Even from here, she can hear the blacksmiths' hammers striking hot against their anvils from where they toiled at their forges. Her nostrils sting fiercely.

Turalyon stands with Captain Fareeya, locked deep in discussion. Before them are six ranks of lightforged draenei, men and women with majestic horns, sun-kissed hair, and brilliant golden armor that catch the light of the sun and the light of the rays on the ocean that turn heads aside for fear of being blinded. Tall, shoulders squared, bristling with a perfect melding of argunite and arkonite that would have otherwise exist in discordance. Some bear the banners of the Exodar's amber plate on purple silk, others the white and yellow naaru-emblazoned crystal of the _Vindicaar_ on bronze.

Her gaze falls upon Turalyon. Lingers.

_He will be gone for a long, long time. There is no guarantee he will return._

Alleria says nothing.

_Anything can happen, _it croons in her ear._ A Horde soldier might get in a lucky shot when he least expects it. He may slip in combat and be struck down by one of their commanders._ _He may even be judged and found wanting by the elf-maiden. A pity the Highlord is traipsing the world over, trying to stem the inevitable._

Alleria's lashes lower, minding the glint of the day at the edges of her vision. She had heard the story. Everyone did. The Highlord had been called upon by Magni Bronzebeard to heal Azeroth of the wounds that opened in the wake of Sargeras's fury with her Heart. Arator had told her Liadrin and Tyrosus were given full command of Light's Hope Chapel, but that had happened shortly before Teldrassil went up in flames and right before Turalyon was introduced to them – to Liadrin, her Blood Knights, and Aponi and her Sunwalkers – and would palaver with them about the time that passed while he was away. Then the news broke out, the war drums sounding. Turalyon was incensed, had called Liadrin and Aponi fools for being blind to Sylvanas and her ways. Aponi was aghast and hurt, but Liadrin had spoken up before she could. She had that there was always war between the Alliance and the Horde regardless of who was Warchief; the Alliance simply hastened what may very well be the end of life as they knew it, no thanks to the boy-king with stars in his eyes and the old wolf that would not be able to see past his own snout until his paws had torn Sylvanas's head off her shoulders and held every last shred of power and autonomy the Horde has. The Horde should never have flourished, Turalyon raged. Their Warchief had started this war, not the Kings of Stormwind and Gilneas. Liadrin and Aponi were not true paladins of the Light. Sylvanas was no longer the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, she was a shepherd of destruction that would lead all her blind, deaf, dumb sheep off a cliff.

Then a fight had erupted between him and Liadrin, and Arator and Aponi and Tyrosus had tried to separate them until all the Silver Hand and the Blood Knights and the Sunwalkers and the Vindicators surged forward and the fight turned into an all-out brawl that saw every Horde paladin removed from Light's Hope Chapel and Turalyon assuming the mantle of Highlord of the Silver Hand. Lordaeron was the Alliance's, he had said to Liadrin's retreating back. Lordaeron was the Horde's now, the Alliance forfeited it and all the land east and south of the Plaguelands long ago, Liadrin responded. The Plaguelands and the Arathi Highlands were the Horde's, and if him and Danath wanted to try reclaiming them then they had better bring all their moxie and their special brand of Light they could muster to drive them from their holy, Stromic land.

Had the _Vindicaar_ not wholly spent itself on Antorus and all the Legion's forces, Arator wagered his father would have, in that moment, given Fareeya the go-ahead to shield the chapel and nuke the Horde from orbit. So great and silent was his wrath; he had never seen a face twisted in such ugliness until that day.

"If only the Highlord had been there_,"_ Arator lamented. _None of that would have happened. "_We would still be together."

_No,_ the Void had said. _They would have still been fighting. Their faith would blind them, and their holy places would be broken in twain. This is why we tell you they are lost._

Alleria says nothing. She watches Turalyon point past Fareeya, toward the tents erected by the piers where soldiers are boarding the ships that will carry them on the long journey to Kul Tiras. There are officers huddled outside them, bent over tables covered with parchment: maps, most likely, or attack plans. Fareeya follows his arm, nods, turns her head to him. She gestures. Turalyon listens.

With each passing day, his face appears more lined and worn. Tired, even, but the Light still shines through him even though it has dimmed considerably. It is what still keeps him standing on both feet, even though he has had very little time to rest, and has expressed more than once, when they're alone, that he would very much like to take off all this armor and simply _be_.

She extends the fingers of her hands over the stone parapet, lightly scrapes her nails over the nicks and the cracks, flexes them over the edges. A quiet stream of breath issues between her lips.

_Things will stay the way they are now if you don't convince him, Alleria. All you have to do is show him what he's missing, tell him how much more enlightened he will become._

She frowns.

_Don't you wish to touch him again? Don't you wish to run your hands through his hair again, and make them into braids pinned with feathers, like you used to in the old days? To relish the strength beneath his muscles and give him the taste of paradise he explored the depths of?_

_It's not too late, Alleria. You can still free him from his shackles. He won't leave yet, but he will go eventually; and when he does, you will not be able to maintain communications with him until the fighting subsides._

She makes a disgruntled noise, bites the inside of one cheek. She bends her fingers over the stone and grips it.

_You're a loyal woman, Alleria...But what of Turalyon? A warm-blooded man with the heat of the Light running in his veins. Forged by our wayward kin to combat the darkness, wearing his scars so proudly, unaware that a simple touch in just the right place will see him shattered to pieces. Yet still he stands strong. He is no different now than he was before, when he stepped through the Dark Portal._

_One thousand years is a long time to go untouched. Unfulfilled. Any man with the right frame of mind and a dose of common sense will tell you that they have needs. To not have those be met, to be left to hang dry, means to not be a man at all._

The frown becomes a scowl. A line creases between furrowed brows. Ears fold back.

_If only he stopped being ignorant and knew the truth. Women like you are delectable morsels that aren't made often...ah, but there are others more exotic. Exquisite. If he's desperate he will have his pick of the crop, the finest and most lush Arathi will have to offer and bury himself in it. And then he will forget you. He will forget Arator. He will have regained the standing he lost when the world learned of your...betrayal._

_But honestly, who would blame him? The Light is just and right and everything good to be taught to all the little boys and girls growing in a world of war. Who would dare walk away from all that warmth and embrace the cold, unfathomable dark, where dread things walk and lies have no power?_

_Tell him, Alleria._

_Show him._

Pain, starting from her fingertips and lancing up the bones, into her knuckles and underneath her wrists. She flinches, draws her hands away from the parapet to look at them. There are cracks in her nails, blood beading to the surface.

Alleria blinks owlishly, as if seeing them for the very first time.

Bells from the Cathedral of Light toll, signaling the arrival of the new hour. Another set ring from below, higher and faster. The sails from one frigate unfurl, revealing the three-pronged crown of Gilneas.

Turalyon and Captain Fareeya salute, and the latter directs the squadron of lightforged to follow her. They about-face, hold their weapons half-mast, and fall in line behind her with matching steps. He turns in their direction, watching them go. In the sunlight, his hair is more yellow than snow-white, just like it used to be. His face less scarred, more youthful and full of the promise of virility.

He looks away, up toward the stairwell, and raises his hand in a wave. He smiles.

Alleria forces on a smile and, after a brief, hesitant moment that she hopes doesn't show, waves back.


End file.
